


Oh, My Love, It Seems We've Lost

by sunnykyo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Broken Promises, Doctor Akaashi Keiji, Drama & Romance, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Immortality, M/M, Mind Palace, Misunderstandings, Post-Betrayal, Romance, Sort Of, War, Warlord Kenma, Worldbuilding, healer akaashi, mentioned-Hinata Shoyo - Freeform, mentioned-Tsukishima Kei, pyromancer, theurgist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnykyo/pseuds/sunnykyo
Summary: He needs you.Akaashi stares down at the note in his hands, his lips pursed. Years have passed and yet he still knew who ‘he’ was and what ‘you’ meant to that ‘he’ or, maybe, it was the other way around—he knew what ‘he’ meant to ‘you’.“A love letter?”"It's nothing like that."OrAkaashi tries to suppress his magic in favor of living among mortals but he finds a note that calls him home.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Kozume Kenma
Kudos: 17





	Oh, My Love, It Seems We've Lost

**Author's Note:**

> A request by @nomanisanisla
> 
> Disclaimer: Historical inaccuracies.

**I.**

  
  


_ He needs you.  _

Akaashi stares down at the note in his hands, his lips pursed. Years have passed and yet he still knew who ‘he’ was and what ‘you’ meant to that ‘he’ or, maybe, it was the other way around—he knew what ‘he’ meant to ‘you’. The paper has been crumpled from his previous attempt to throw it out but something in his core told him not to go through with it. There is a whole life he’s left behind and now that life comes back in the form of three words on a piece of paper in the middle of his desk in Indonesia. 

“A love letter?” 

Akaashi looks up to meet a mischievous gaze. “It’s nothing like that, Suga.” 

“The hell it’s not when I’ve watched you stand there and stare at it for hours.” Suga was nothing like any of the friends he’s kept before, not because of the fact that he’s human and it’ll probably hurt when he hits 39 and Akaashi would need to leave him, but because his personality was not one to tiptoe around him. He was straightforward but never in a hostile sort of way.

He was the first friend that Akaashi allowed to remain by his side after a great while of solitude. He hasn’t used an ounce of magic ever since he left his life behind him. But Suga’s company made it a little bearable. It was refreshing to be looked at with such a different set of eyes. Surely, he’d be one of the few humans Akaashi would miss. 

“Akaashi- _ san  _ I am talking to you.” 

Akaashi scrunches his nose at the use of ‘-san’. He chucks the piece of paper in one of his drawers before emitting a tired sigh. “I’m ignoring you.” 

“Be that way to your dearest friend.” His sulking doesn’t last long as he walks around Akaashi’s office, peering through the blinds and looking through his books. “I met a warlock today.” 

“Interesting.” 

“Hey, don’t be prejudiced.” 

Technically, is it still prejudice if they are of his kind? “I’m not.” 

“You are,” he huffed. 

Akaashi sighs, sits back on his office chair. “It’s a personal thing.” 

“What do you really think about them?”

If Akaashi were to be honest, he thinks that warlocks are selfish. It’s not as if they mean to do it or purposely did everything they did to become such a thing it’s just naturally ingrained in them to want something and then want more of it. He thinks that maybe having left that life behind was one of his better choices in life. “I think they could be better.” 

“Okay, Doc,” Suga snorts. “I think you’re just jealous that they live forever.” 

Akaashi gives him a look. “And what does that ‘forever’ do to a person? It only corrupts them and their ego.” 

It’s only a little after a handful of seconds that he recognizes his tone and when he looks up Suga is already shooting him a half curious and half worried look. He shakes his head as if to dismiss it. Suga purses his lips at this response. 

“Look, they’re great,” he tries to amend, “but I wouldn’t make it personal.” 

A snort. “You are a mysterious one, Doc.” 

“Hm.” 

“Well, alright, I’ve bothered your brooding long enough.” 

“My what?” 

“I’ll leave you alone.” A pause. “Unless you need something?” 

Suga gave him a hopeful look with a little bit of expectation. Akaashi already knows what it’s about. Today, he’ll allow him the pleasure of acting wise. “So...hypothetically…” 

Suga steps away from the door with a barely concealed look of delight on his face. “Yes, hypothetically..?” 

“If you were to have left someone behind—” 

“How long?” 

“Five years?”  _ Five decades if we were to be exact but never you mind that, Koushi.  _

“Christ. Go on.” 

“If I were to have left someone behind, a whole life maybe, and they suddenly ask for help. What would I do then?”

“And  _ you  _ say it isn’t a love letter. You realize you just said ‘I’?” 

Akaashi ignores him. Suga looks triumphant. 

“Well, if  _ I  _ were  _ you… _ ” Suga wiggles his brows at him. He tries to suppress a sigh by pinching his nose. “...I’d go back.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I take it five years is a lie?” Akaashi opens his mouth to explain then closes it again. “Anyway, yes, I’d go back because, well, think about it. Why now? Why after so long? Why didn’t they contact me a week after I left?” 

Quiet. 

“Yes, I do overthink too. We’re medical practitioners, it’s what we do.” 

Suga watches him carefully, noting the usually steady hands starting to fidget. “Keiji.” 

Akaashi, thankfully, looks at him. 

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“There’s always a ‘but’.” 

Suga nods. “But it might be another thing that’ll haunt you to your grave.” 

Except, he won’t ever be buried (or at least not soon) so this thing will just be another ghost co-existing in every room he’s in. He already held so many regrets that happened a century ago and he cannot add more to that list especially if one of the many was still so freshly etched in his heart. 

“I think I’m going to take a leave.” 

Suga hums as if he already expected it. “Wise choice.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


On any given occasion, the language switch would have put stress on Akaashi’s head but Japan was quiet. It’s almost an instant reminder of why he left it behind. It’s easy to get consumed by one’s own thoughts here. It’s only a little into the train ride that Akaashi realizes—he doesn’t know where to go. 

The letter only says :  _ he needs you  _

And as straight to the point ‘he’ and ‘you’ were, it doesn’t answer the ‘where’ and ‘why’. Rightfully so, perhaps, since he may not have come back if he knew or maybe he would but with a greater sense of urgency. If he were to make a portal now he’d be there in no time but he was no longer familiar of this terrain nor did he feel like a five decade’s worth of suppressed magic would allow him to step into a rough portal without expecting some sort of limb to be cut off, he’d be called lucky if it was just his pinky finger. 

So, here he was, on a shinkansen with just his thoughts.

Exactly how he planned most of his weekends. 

But it gets better once he arrives at Hokkaido, the quiet thrum of this power spot beneath him giving some sort of direction. Mount Asahidake may not be near but the quiet pulses of energy beneath every crack and crevice of the land makes Akaashi feel  _ alive.  _ He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. There’s a slight release of tension in his chest almost like his body and his core is realizing that he is  _ home.  _

Call it an ‘inkling’ but it's Akaashi’s feet that move first before he fully registers where he’s meant to go. At one point in time, Akaashi could have extended his magic outwards to track someone. He had once covered the whole Okinawa prefecture with blue light if only to win a game of hide and seek but right now he might destroy himself if he were to do it again. 

He feels the ache a little later once he finally stops in front of an old yet still so freshly familiar house. Akaashi forcefully pushes away any unwanted memories and feelings that came knocking on the walls he’s built. He needed to stay neutral for this.

Then again, with  _ him,  _ it was impossible to stay neutral. 

“Akaashi, I can hear you thinking from here.” 

The voice snaps him out of his reverie. “Kuroo?” 

“Dulled, have we? You didn’t even sense me here,” Kuroo says, smirking. “Come in.” 

So he does, albeit a little hesitantly. “You knew I was coming?” 

The house was magicked to be bigger on the inside, so much so that Akaashi can vividly imagine the feeling of being a small fish in a big pond. “I thought for sure his house would be more modern.” 

“You know Kenma…” It trails off because it’s supposed to be ‘knew’. 

“Right.”

Kuroo watches him remove his shoes by the doorway. “I sensed you as soon as you landed. You’re not as cut off from this place as you may think.” 

Unfortunately, he’s right. “Sensing me is one thing but finding me is another and I’m fairly sure a necromancer can’t track me down like that.” 

Kuroo’s smirk grows. “I’d sooner find Nero in Jigoku than you in Indonesia but the walls say Tsukki is fairly good at tracking.”

Akaashi eyes him, follows where he leads. “So I’ve heard.” 

“Anyway, the note wasn’t sent for fun.” Kuroo says, turning his head slightly to glance at him. 

“Still, ‘he needs you’ is quite overdramatic, no?” 

A snort. “So is disappearing for five decades but to each their own.” 

“Should’ve been enough time for everyone to understand that I don’t want to be here nor involved.”

“Truly.” 

“Then why am I here?” 

Kuroo stops in front of a bedroom door. “Why’d you come?” 

Akaashi doesn’t answer. 

There is a pause that electrifies that air in between them, but neither jump to anything. Instead, Kuroo chuckles lightly before sliding the paper panelled door open. Akaashi is immediately hit by a twist in his core upon entering, if not for that pain then surely he’d feel his chest throb at the sight of Kenma lying down on his bed attached to a heart monitor and an IV. 

He doesn’t wait for Kuroo to talk, immediately steps closer. It’s almost mindless the way he waves his hand over Kenma’s body with so much unlocked desperation and _need._ He feels his gut twist at the sudden pull of magic, his whole body feeling relief as his core lights up, but he ignores it. It’s like riding a bike, he thinks, even though he’s never ridden one and this is not even akin to riding a bike. He checks Kenma’s vitals, checks every bit he could. His core has whirred to life and it’s painful, after being suddenly (and unwillingly) awakened from decades of suppression. The blue light wraps around Kenma’s small frame, searching and suddenly so excited that its once again reunited with—

“What’s wrong with him?” Akaashi grits his teeth, letting his magic disperse before resting his hand at his side. “He’s right here. Why can’t I feel him?” 

“He’s in a magically induced coma.” 

“He should have woken up then,” Akaashi says, his hand reaching out in an attempt to hold Kenma’s hand but then he pulls away as if he never intended to do anything. “Where’s Shoyo? I trained him. He should be—”

Akaashi feels his mouth dry when Kuroo avoids his eyes. “A lot has happened.”

“Is he…” dead? 

“He’s as close to that word as possible.” Kuroo tries to decide whether or not he should tell him, instead of the whole story he settles for one word. “Rift.”

Immediately, Akaashi understands. Rifts are a powerful thing, a rip in between the sheets of dimensions of this human earth and Jigoku. It is what allows spirits and demonic plagues to happen but it cannot be helped. It’s as natural as the deterioration of the ozone. 

(What Kuroo doesn’t mention is that Hinata, upon interacting with a 100 kilometer rift in Tokyo, had to sacrifice himself. The power spot in Tokyo is much too weak due to urbanization and Hinata knew he could not completely seal it from the planes of earth so he, at the very last minute, entered the rift and closed it from the inside. There has never been a warlock who has returned from doing such a thing, not unless they wanted to reopen something they desperately tried to seal shut. Tsukishima still hasn’t forgiven himself for being a few seconds too late.)

Akaashi prides himself in multitasking but there’s only so much he can process, only so much he can  _ do  _ and this is just a challenge he wasn’t ever ready for. “Self-sacrificing idiot. He said he’d take it easy before I left. He said he’d find me after five decades.” 

“And you said you’d never use magic again,” Kuroo says, not unkindly yet not kindly as well. He looks over Kenma’s form. “But you checked on him rather quickly.”

Right. Focus. “So? Why isn’t he awake?” 

“He doesn’t want to.” A shrug. “I tried reaching for him and so did Tsukki but we couldn’t find him. He’s hidden himself.” 

“How long has he been like this?” He figured someone had transfigured it into a hospital bed. He can tell that the heart monitor was once a hat rack. 

“A while.” 

“Kuroo, if he doesn’t use his magic he’s going to be eaten by his own core.” He senses the question before it even comes. “He and I are different. A pyromancer’s core is volatile and almost  _ sentient.  _ Fire gives life but it's also very...hungry. He can’t be stagnant for too long or else he’ll turn into ash.” 

“What do you suggest?” 

Akaashi rests his hand on Kenma’s forehead, shivering at the familiarity of the act. It’s been so long since he’s seen him and even longer since he’s touched him, it must have been his imagination when he felt the sparks underneath the pads of his fingertips except that it wasn’t. “I can find him.”

“I see.” 

“I’ll have to enter his mind and find him, maybe he’s hiding in a memory.” A memory is a strong thing, one can get too wrapped in it and find it hard to live in the present. He’s having a hard time picturing Kenma wanting to hide in a memory but then he’s been gone for so long things must’ve drastically changed. “I’ve done it once before but it was for a mortal not….yeah, I can do it.” 

“Are you okay with that? You haven’t practiced.” 

Akaashi pulls his hand away, finding the lengthened touch a bit too unjustified. “I’m going to ground myself in the garden first before I start.” 

Silence.

“You never used to do spells unless you’ve drank coffee, has that changed?” 

He can’t help the quiet laugh he lets out. He looks at Kuroo,  _ really  _ looks at him, and sees an old friend. “That hasn’t changed.

Kuroo smiles, the first one since Akaashi’s arrival. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


One cup of coffee turns into three then six rather quickly. Akaashi doesn’t want to waste time and something ridiculous such as sleep won’t hold him back. 

“Ready?” Kuroo asks.

Akaashi sighs. “You better protect my body well.” 

Deadpan. “I’ll draw a mustache on you.” 

“Fine just don’t let me die.” 

“Kenma would destroy me if that happened.” 

There’s a flutter in his stomach and Akaashi’s hand moves to grip the area. He’s barely able to suppress his sigh because,  _ of course,  _ he’d still feel this way and,  _ of course,  _ he’d do anything for him again.  _ How unnecessary.  _

His hand hovers over Kenma’s forehead, the glow of blue highlighting his face especially the tip of his nose before it vanishes abruptly. 

He knows what this is.

Hesitation. 

It should be easy to find the Kenma that’s hiding in there somehow, Akaashi knew him best or should be the one to know him best. He knew the labyrinth of his thoughts and how high those walls were. Akaashi just needed to bring him back to himself. But what if he didn’t know him at all? What if he gets lost in an entanglement of memories owned by someone with a great facade? 

Kuroo squeezes his shoulder in a silent act of empathy.

He wills the glow of his hand back to life despite all his marbled thoughts. He tries to find an anchor within himself, something to tie him down and keep him whole. Unwillingly, his thoughts go back to those three words ‘ _ he needs you’  _ , the slow recall of who ‘he’ and ‘you’ was—who they were at some point or maybe all points in time. 

He thinks of what ‘he’ meant.

Always.

All the time.

It meant ‘Kenma.’ 

And what did Kenma mean to him—to ‘you’. 

Despite the decades lost.

Despite the suppressed memories.

Despite it.

Despite that.

Despite all.

He meant  _ everything.  _

The world goes dark.

  
  
  


**II.**

  
  
  


“Akaashi.” 

Who? 

“Akaashi.” 

Familiar. 

“ _ Akaashi.”  _

Akaashi opens his eyes, unaware they were even closed. The first thing he notices is the frustration in golden eyes before the room around him suddenly falls into place, chess pieces floating to their assigned square. There were two balls of light in the sky, trying to mimic the unity of the sun but it did nothing but allow Akaashi to realize that he is, in fact, in Kenma’s memory. 

“Should I make myself scarce so that you are free to disappear in your head?” Kenma says, scowling. His black kimono fit him perfectly, Akaashi has almost forgotten how he looked during wartimes—a scowl with inky clothes. 

He feels himself answer according to this memory. “Who was it that said that my words held no weight?” 

He may have also forgotten how they loathed each other before. It’s strange, however, that he doesn’t feel loathing now.

Kenma’s emotions bleed into him through this memory yet none of what he feels can be called ‘loathing’. “Don’t be impertinent, I have no time for it.” 

Curious. Why this memory? He doesn’t recall why, of all memories, it had to be this. Kenma’s hair was long, practically waist length and it made him look a little closer to regal than it did militaristic and yet here he was a tactician in his prime with the lust to overthrow. It used to feel like they were playing a game with humanity, they watched as each period rose and fell.

Kenma’s sword was on the table, afterall, it was all for show. He would sooner be able to eradicate one’s air passage than unsheathe his sword. Besides, Kenma hated anything related to physical exertion. Akaashi could clearly see Kenma’s collarbones in between the partitions of his kimono, he takes a deep breath and looks away.

“All we have is that.” The other man scowled, sensing the sarcasm. “Time, that is. Have you not sated yourself? Ashikaga was already under you, the military dictatorship controlled under your thumb.” 

Kenma scoffs. “Barely any hardship. It was inconsequential to me.” 

Akaashi raises a brow. “You founded Buddhism.” 

“And there will be many more to praise.” Kenma leans against the wall—when others would pace you would find him eerily still. “My concerns are of the pests from the farthest sea. They call themselves  _ founders  _ of new land.” His tone is tinted with disgust. “White skinned colonizers tainting whatever land their feet come upon.” 

Akaashi picks up a figurine from their table, examines the crudely made image of what a colonizer should look like. “Fair choice of words.” 

“They’ve already tainted neighboring countries with doctrines that erase individual culture. It’s a threat to the archipelago and our governance.” Akaashi is washed over by a sense of calm, and knows that Kenma finally has a plan. 

“Do we renounce imperial powers?” 

The corner of Kenma’s lip flicks upward into a smirk. “So you do have words of importance.” 

Akaashi rolls his eyes. “There’s no need for your jest.” 

“This plan will be slow, it takes a while for poison to overtake and that is how we’ll act.”

Briefly, Akaashi has to wonder who made this small man a leader. “There is already tension in Salem, we do not need a witch hunt here in Japan. If word spreads, the condemnation will cause travesties.” 

“Our timing is never wrong.” 

_ Our.  _ “You should know that you already have my aid.” 

It’s only after Kenma’s small nod that Akaashi notices the plates of castella on their table, Akaashi’s slice merely reduced to crumbs while Kenma’s still sat untouched. They were not on the friendliest of terms, merely an agreement to work to protect their own kind and yet whenever Akaashi came for a meeting it was always only them with two plates of castella and only one of them ending up eating it. 

“You never eat.” 

Kenma only looks at him. 

Akaashi can feel a touch of a nervous flutter. 

“Do you have an aversion to castella?” 

Kenma clears his throat. “It is not a cause for concern.” 

“If you have such an aversion, why then serve it?” He sees Kenma’s whole face twitch before he turns away from him. He’s quick to reach for the door. 

“I wish to be alone.” His voice was weak.

At those words, the ground began to shake. Kenma continued to walk away as if nothing was happening, as if the ground where he once stood hadn’t caved and hollowed. Akaashi thinks he might just end up with motion sickness if the transitions from one memory to another are this turbulent. 

He closes his eyes to stop himself from possibly throwing up. If not for the realization that Kenma’s ears were pink as he walked away he would have focused on the turbulence more.

  
  
  
  
  


Slowly, like someone turning up the volume of a speaker, the drone of a chit chattering crowd floods his senses, it’s almost enough to push him towards a migraine but he loses it as soon as he opens his eyes. He’s in Queen Elizabeth’s ballroom, his mask obscuring his vision in a manner that makes him just slightly uncomfortable. It was always her wish to have the most gaudy and odd themed parties. He doesn’t quite understand why they had to wear a flimsy mask instead of using a glamour. 

The air felt electric with the magic of all invited warlocks. It’s comforting to know just how easy going everything was despite the pretenses of the venue. 

Still, he downs his glass of wine. 

He tries to remember what happened in this memory but is distracted when he sees him, a mystery standing by the edge of the crowd with only his graceful hold of the wine glass stem making him stand out amongst everything. 

He looks to his side in an automatic way, the way this memory has played out. Tsukki is beside him with a bored look, opening his mouth to say something but it sounds like his voice was muffled and almost like a gurgle. The owner of the memory must’ve not heard him but if Akaashi’s own memory serves him right Tsukki was saying:  _ I will be off to retire to the gardens. Necromancers are the bane of my very existence.  _

Akaashi answers:  _ I’d join you...however… _

Tsukki only nods, turns to leave. 

Akaashi turns back to the man he saw, their gazes connecting almost immediately. They’d been aware of each other it seems. He’s not normally confident and he  _ never  _ moves towards someone if he can help it. 

It must be the wine. 

“Sorry.” It’s the first thing Akaashi says and it doesn’t register at all until a smirk finds its way to the other man’s lips. “I’m not quite sure what for…” 

He hides behind his wine glass, the drink staining his lips. 

The silence was a mere ten seconds and Akaashi already wanted to flee.

“Seems you apologize by simply existing.” His voice was glamoured. Akaashi only knew who he was according to his own memory. 

It was hard to discern the separation of his current memory and the knowledge of each moment unfolding as it happened before. He finds that he forgets the fact that he already knows what’s to come, it slips in and out of his consciousness like parts of a book he’s read just at the tip of his tongue but never truly present until the inevitable  _ eureka  _ moment. He knows and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. 

Akaashi smiles a bit dumbly, dazed by him. It felt so familiar yet something new. He had no doubt he knew this man, he’d known everyone in this room for decades yet...it’s the mask. “I apologize for showing such inexperience.” 

“At approaching?”

“At talking.”

The other man makes his glass disappear with a flick, the crackle of his magic maroon against all the golden threads of the room. “I…” His face scrunches up. “Perhaps, I need to apologize too.” 

Akaashi hums. “Shall we retire to somewhere where we can make fools out of ourselves in private?” 

There’s hesitation. When it’s a man asking a man there was always hesitation. “You don’t...recognize me.” 

“It’s a masquerade.” Those lips  _ are  _ familiar. “Should I be able to?”

He shakes his head. “I suppose not, that’d make for a bad masquerade.” 

The conversation, as they move towards one of the many private balconies, is a bit stilted. Akaashi has never felt so incapable of talking before but now even moreso. Every word they say seems to float in the air from the lack of weight and depth. He can’t seem to find a common ground. It reminds him a little bit of someone else, it reminds him that he wished for someone else to be here in this man’s stead.

He looks towards one of Queen Elizabeth's many displayed busts of cement. 

“Alexander the Great,” he says.

The other man looks up from his hands to turn towards the stoney face. “He was alright.” 

“You knew him?” 

“I fought with him,” he says. “I was the one that suggested the Hammer and Anvil tactic but, of course, all credit goes to the mortal.” 

He snorts. “Darius fleeing to god knows where must have been a sight to behold or so I’ve heard.” 

“The enemy fleeing is always a sight to behold.” He’s smiling. “Pity that I wasn’t able to take credit, it was used during the second punic war without my knowledge.” 

“You like war?” 

“I like to win.” 

It sinks in, slowly, that he was starting to recognize who this person was. He finds that he’s thrilled, finds his very blood singing a quiet hum of excitement.  _ It’s him.  _ Akaashi never realized just how much he wanted it to be him and just how fast he approached him because somewhere inside him knew that it was  _ him.  _

“An anarchist then.”

“A strategist moreso.” 

Akaashi can feel himself smile a little. “I recognize you.” 

The other man leans on the stone baluster. “And does it bother you?” 

“Perhaps, if I did not wish from the start that it was you.” Akaashi reaches to pinch the very tip of Kenma’s hair. “Unfair of you to ask for recognition from me when you’ve dyed your hair a specific color of sunlight.”

Kenma laughs. “Poetic.” 

“It’s the wine.” He’s been sober for an hour now. 

“It’s the wine,” Kenma agrees: he’s been sober for two. He looks at Akaashi then looks away. “You look at me a little suffocatingly.” 

“Before you run away again.”  _ I need to soak in your presence. _

“I won’t.”

“Then would you come with me?” He’s finally able to go off script. “We need you somewhere else.” 

The other man looks at him then up towards the sky if it could be even called a sky. Instead of night, it’s replaced by swirls of images ranging from past to his present. They were like silent films stitched together in a cloudy flow. “I’d like to stay here. I like this moment, I always revisit it.” 

“Why do you prefer this over waking up with me?” 

Kenma’s gaze was soft. “Because after this you hold my hand.” 

Akaashi feels, rather than  _ consciously chooses,  _ his hand move and, just as Kenma had said, he takes Kenma’s hand in his. “Then tell me where I can find the ‘you’ that wants to wake up.” 

A frown splays on his face. “There’s not a ‘me’ that wouldn’t want to.” He squeezes his hand. “I just...like it here.” 

But, there’s more to it than that. 

“You know what I mean.” 

A sigh. “It’s not ‘me’, you should go forward.” 

“What---” 

_ DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG _

It was time to remove the masks. 

Akaashi watches Kenma remove his, a shy smile on his face as he peers up at him.  _ Beautiful.  _ He could use forever to admire his face alone, then his whole being next but he doesn’t.

Mainly, because he doesn’t have the time. The  _ DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG  _ persists and starts to reverberate annoyingly in Akaashi’s head, the wind begins to pick up as it bends trees and shrubberies to its will. He’ll be whisked away soon.

“Show me your face before you go.”

So he does. He removes his mask to have them both bare and he hears Kenma sigh with fondness. 

“There you are,” Kenma says. “Have a safe trip alright?”

The wind has already surrounded him, picking him up in a somewhat gentle manner. His feet struggle with trying to find solid ground but having none of it. “Am I going very far?”

His eyes follow Akaashi in his slow rise. “A few years maybe.”

Kenma gives his hand one last squeeze before he eventually slips out of his reach. It’s a lot colder without his touch, Akaashi realizes.

His last thought:  _ God. I hope this transition is smooth  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Keiji, you’re going into another memory? You might lose yourself the more memory hops you do.  _

  
  


_ Kuroo, get out of my head _

_ Technically, it’s Kenma’s head.  _

_ I don’t need your technicalities.  _

_ Then heed my warning _

  
  


_ I’m going as fast as I can, I need his permission to take him to wakefulness and I certainly need it to be the correct Kenma _

  
  


_ All of those Kenmas is the correct Kenma _

  
  


_ I’m not going to force any of him to the forefront. _

  
  


_ …. _

  
  


_ How is it that your sigh is so loud? Get out.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Keiji.” 

It takes a while for Akaashi to realize that he’s settled into another memory, he wonders if he was constantly daydreaming for Kenma to always call his attention like this naturally or maybe he was just that exhausted before. Akaashi looks at him, sees the faint blush on his cheeks. Ah, right, this was the first time Kenma said his name. 

This was a big jump from the night of the masquerade, a lot has happened in between this memory and the previous. It was mostly so full of them that Akaashi felt himself blush just recalling it all. There’s a lot of things that happened to have led up to this one moment, to have made this moment even possible.

“Sorry. You weren’t paying attention.” 

“Sorry that you used it or sorry that you’re not at all?” 

Kenma taps the map on the war table impatiently. He’s blushing but tries to tamp it down with a rationality in him that Akaashi admires. “Yoshinobu finally surrendered and it’s time for the imperialist force to take over.” 

“This must be a fun game for you.” Akaashi picks up the crudely sculpted figurine of Yoshinobu and crushes its head between his thumb and index finger. “And though I do want to indulge you, are you not going to take a step back? We’ve won.” 

“But then there’s aftermath.” 

“Which you can relinquish control over.” 

“Who am I if I don't have control?” 

Akaashi sighs, feels a spike of anxiety and knows that it’s his own. He’s seen warlocks time and time again choose control and the choice always ends with the consequence of a war or simply losing oneself. Kenma is a few decades too young for that and yet he fears it’ll happen soon if he doesn’t let this go. “I imagine you’d still be Kenma.” 

“Riveting.” 

Akaashi reaches for his hand, nudges the fist to open like how a parent would to a baby (close open close open). “You might forget what you’re fighting for if you don’t slow down.” 

Kenma visibly relaxes, loses all sarcasm. “Perhaps, I can take suggestions if they’re from you.” 

“Let’s go for a walk, hm?” He says. “I hear that…” 

What was he about to say?  _ Oh dear god.  _

Kenma searches his face. “What?” Akaashi feels his ears heat up. He goes to stand by the window, Kenma following him out of concern. “Keiji, are you alright?” 

It’s not as if he wouldn’t have meant it and it’s not a hasty decision. But he knew Kenma, knew how easily overwhelmed he was when it came to matters of the heart. They were each other’s first and it’s not far fetched to think that, perhaps, they are also each other’s last. Akaashi doesn’t find any flaw in this.

Still, he had to say it without overwhelming the other.

But he needed to say it now.

_ Now.  _

His heart stutters. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” 

He watches Kenma’s face take on a lovely shade of pink, finds that he might form an obsession to see it all the time but, of course, in private for this view must only be for him. He always looked gorgeous but tonight, under the hunter’s moon, he looked absolutely beautiful.

“Close your eyes.”

Akaashi knows what’s next so he smiles as he follows his order. He’s not at all surprised when he feels warmth on his lips and a smile to accompany it. His arm finds Kenma’s waist while small hands find his nape and his hair. He remembers how he tasted on this night: sweet and like the castella he forced himself to eat. 

That night, he wondered how far he could possibly reach as his hands slipped through the partition of Kenma’s kimono. He deepens the kiss when he feels Kenma shiver underneath the pads of his fingers. 

Lovely. 

He hears Kenma’s breath hitch, pulling away slightly when Akaashi brushes over something on his chest.  _ Oh,  _ Akaashi remembers thinking.  _ He’s sensitive.  _

So lovely.

“Wait, Keiji, you’re—” He sounded like he was fading. 

He stops his ministrations when the feeling of body heat and the pressure fades until the touches feel too much like silk and Akaashi can’t seem to willingly open his eyes. The darkness of the night is replaced by soft light that can be deciphered even through his unopened eyes. He’s in yet another memory without so much as a warning. 

He quite enjoyed kissing Kenma.

The hops are picking up speed, it seems his magic isn’t able to hold anything for longer anymore which both frustrates him and doesn’t. He can’t be drained in the middle of this procedure lest he wants to repeat the same memory over and over again—or maybe he does want that if it meant living in such a saccharine echo of Kenma’s mind.

_ Keiji, focus _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I know you’re awake.” 

Akaashi opens his eyes, the immediate image of everything flooding his senses and making him feel as if he’d short circuited. 

Golden light streaming through the sheer curtains of the room hitting the highest points of Kenma’s back in such a graceful manner it almost seemed so deathly futile to look away. Akaashi doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare breathe. He remembers this moment. They were at the Doges Palace, glamoured to remain hidden and here they were basking in the glow of sunset with silk sheets neath their bodies and nothing atop. 

“I was enjoying you playing with my hair.” Akaashi almost teases him for the besotted look on his face if only he didn’t reflect it tenfold. 

“What do I call you?” Kenma asks. 

“I suppose anything a person would call their lover.” 

“Lover.” It sounds as if he was tasting it. “Love, then? Darling? Dear?” 

Akaashi’s nose scrunches up in a futile attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Nevermind.” 

“Fair enough,” Kenma laughs. This was the most he’s said and the most out of character he’s been, perhaps it’s because they’re bare in all forms of the word itself. “Being able to call you ‘Keiji’ is a privilege I already indulge in.” 

There is still something on the other’s mind so he doesn’t say anything—he waits.

“But what do you call us?”

And it’s probably the most absurd question seeing how debauched they looked. “Today we don’t have a word for it but perhaps in the future we do.” 

_ Boyfriend _ : his modern mind supplies. 

Kenma preens at the gentle assumption of a future together. “Lovers would be a start.” 

“Granted that we’ve already started.” 

Kenma inches closer to him, his cheek laying to rest on Akaashi’s abdomen. “Don’t take me away from this moment.” 

Immediately, it’s clear that this isn’t the ‘Kenma’ either. Smoothly, he says, “How can I? When I myself find it hard to leave.” 

He reaches down to let his fingers disappear in Kenma’s hair, relishing how soft it felt. “Like silk.” 

A shy smile. “A gorgeous man telling me such a thing. What would you have me do?” 

“What do you wish to do?” 

“For said man to touch me and kiss me again.” He feels the silk sheets pulling him into the mattress quite literally, at least these moments had more tasteful transitions. “Maybe a kiss before he leaves instead.” 

Akaashi tugs at him, pulling him upwards so that their chests are pressed flush against each other. Kenma tucks his hair behind his ear to stop it from tickling Akaashi’s nose even though they know he doesn’t mind. There’s something intimate about laying together and having your lover’s hair tickling your face. The silks did not stop swallowing them both down but, truly it must be his imagination, they seem to slow down the process to watch this languid show of tenderness. 

Kenma leans down to peck his lips, testing him. 

Akaashi smiles at the playfulness, twirls a golden lock around his index finger. He leans up to mimic the kiss—barely a kiss. 

He watches him giggle, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. 

“Properly,” Akaashi says in a tone so soft he hardly recognizes himself at all. 

Kenma leans down, kisses him fully on the mouth with as much as he could and that ‘as much’ is already ‘a lot’. The silk sheets could drown him but whatever they felt for each other was already enough to fill Akaashi’s lungs and suffocate him. He wonders just how much more tenderness he’s able to feel for this man because it already hurts at times. 

“See you in the next memory,” Kenma whispers against his lips.

_ And hopefully there we can kiss some more. _ Akaashi can only hum, letting the sheets completely consume him. 

  
  
  


He imagines this is what it feels like to be trapped in a coffin and if not for the fact that he knows it’s a transition he would’ve let his panic set in. 

However, the memory settles in before he could get any more antsy. The wind plays with his hair in a silent message of:  _ it’s okay _ . 

Akaashi takes a deep breath, feeling his nerves ease.

This time they were at the beach with his toes buried in the sand. The taste of salt on his lips was so prominent that it almost fools him into thinking that this was the present. Kenma takes a seat beside him, offering him slices of fruit to help with the heat and the humidity. Everything felt so sticky and if his leg were to touch Kenma’s he fears they’d never get unstuck. 

There were children from the nearby village frolicking around, wooden swords and some with paper crafts. Akaashi can hear their laughter and it makes him smile. He’d helped with protecting human life for so long, helped heal the wounded, that he forgets the wonderments of a child at play. He liked to think that despite a warlock’s demonic origin, he’s here to protect those who don’t hold as much power. He wants to nurture everything around him, against the will of his own covenant. He watches mothers watch their children with a sort of fondness Akaashi used to ache for, he’s happy that these children have that.

“I like this.” 

Kenma watches him. “What, my love?” 

“This peacefulness.” Akaashi takes a deep breath, enjoying the clean air. “No wars. It’s just existing.” 

“A life without some problems is boring, don’t you think so?” Kenma says, playful. 

“Such a warlord.” 

He shrugs. 

“I want this peace to remain for as long as we can help it,” Akaashi says, meeting Kenma’s soft gaze. “There’s not much need for more tactics or the privilege of being right, I quite like just being here with you and not having the smell of blood ruin everything.” 

“There’s not a war coming.” 

“Can you honestly say that?” Akaashi tilts his head in wonderment. “Isn’t there something you want? Winning. Land. Discovering some sort of thing like Buddhism.” 

Kenma shakes his head. “Everything I need is right here.” 

He feels his heart swell. “No more wars?”

“No more.” 

“Tactics?” 

“Only for Igo and Shoji.” 

Akaashi doesn’t stop himself from hoping, knowing his trust isn’t misplaced. “And, this is a promise?” 

Kenma looks around before leaning to kiss Akaashi’s shoulder. “ _ A commitment _ .” 

“Kozume Kenma,” he breathes, looking out into the sea. “You truly are beautiful.” 

It’s a little late when he realizes just how high tide it was considering that the water now reached their ankles. The children played as if nothing though some of them were already waist deep in water. Kenma doesn’t seem bothered, only splashes his hand in the water with a look of amusement. 

“This is creative.” 

He laughs.

“Stay here with me?” 

“Or you could join me.” 

Kenma pouts at that. “But this is the last good thing I have with you.” 

“Surely it’s not.” 

The water rushes in, rising to their upper arm in its haste. “You won’t like what’s next.” 

He feels a nervous flutter at that. “I’ve liked everything so far.” 

“So far,” Kenma repeats, sounding far away.

He holds Kenma’s hand underneath the water, amazing how he can still find it. “Let’s just enjoy this then before I have to move on.” 

Kenma nods, squeezing his hand. “It’s been so long since I came back here, you know?” 

“You still live near here.” 

The water is up to their shoulders. “But  _ you _ don’t.” 

“Yeah, I...went away.” 

“And nothing’s been the same since.” 

Kenma looks towards the horizon and Akaashi does the same, constantly tightening and loosening his grip around Kenma’s hand to remind both of them that they’re here. This is probably the last good memory judging by what this Kenma said about ‘the next’. He doesn’t think too much, enjoys this last moment of serenity. 

When the water reaches their necks, Kenma rests his head on Akaashi’s shoulder. “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t ask ‘for what’ just assumes that something in him knows what that ‘thank you’ was for. “It’s okay.” 

The water consumes them both.

  
  
  


**III.**

  
  
  
  


_ Keiji _

Someone was calling him.

_ Keiji, you’re losing yourself _ .

Who was it?

_ Remember why you’re there. _

So far away…

_ He needs you.  _

Who?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Kenma hasn’t slept well in what Akaashi remembers were weeks, it’s like he fought the night itself rather than coexisted with it. Tonight he wakes up to him sitting bolt upright staring right into the darkness, the darkness staring back. They’re having a silent conversation and it scares him that he can’t hear it. He props himself up on his elbows, wondering what approach he should take. He already had a guess as to what this was about. 

And his guesses were never wrong. 

“Kenma.” His voice cracks, not quite ready to be used. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

He reaches towards him, rubs the small of his back. _ I don’t believe you _ . 

“The western influence has been a bit...loud lately.” 

“That’s not your responsibility.” How do you comfort someone who already sees his world crumbling despite the fact that it’s not. He looks around him and sees chunks of their room breaking and floating away. He sits up, holding onto Kenma’s arm as if that’d stop him from getting taken. 

Kenma puts his hand on top of his, taps it twice. “You’re right.”

There’s an unmentioned ‘but’ there that Akaashi doesn’t comment on.

“But I want to win.” 

“Win what exactly?” Silence. “Who are you fighting against?” 

Silence. 

Frankly, Kenma didn’t even need to say anything. Akaashi could see Kenma press his hands together to keep them from fidgeting. He can quite clearly see the twitch in his fingers, a sign of his want to reach and create an endless fire. How many would Akaashi have to heal this time to compensate for his beloved’s thirst for destruction.

Slowly, he stands. He didn’t want to make his discomfort obvious. 

This is probably the first point of betrayal, the obvious and blatant forgetfulness of what they had previously promised. And maybe he would have given Kenma at least one shred of doubt, the benefit of it, if not for the look of lust in his eyes—lust for power.

He presses a kiss on Kenma’s forehead, sending a shot of a relaxant spell through it. In his next words, he pours everything he’s ever felt. “I love you.”

Kenma sees him— _ sees him _ . It’s a quick moment of clarity but it was there nonetheless. The scent of lavender grows stronger, a prominent sign of Kenma’s desperate attempt to sleep. “I love you too.”

It still didn’t feel right. He doesn’t doubt the ‘I love you too’, he doubts the actions that support this. “I’ll make us some tea.” 

There’s a pit in his stomach that tells him that things are about to go awry. 

This is as much as Kenma’s memory as it is his. 

Still, he wonders if this inkling of fear was his own.

It’s his own choice to walk into the abyss. He does not spare a look behind him, fearing that what he sees is not something he’d like. 

Darkness.

The longer he walks the more  _ nowhere _ he reaches. He’s beginning to think that this is the end of everything. Still, he keeps walking until he finds  _ something _ . 

If he could picture what walking on the night sky would be like, he thinks it could be akin to this. The endless blanket of nothingness that felt cold underneath his bare feet. He takes a mental note to always wear slippers from now on, one doesn’t know when they need to do a memory jump in scenes like these. 

It must have been hours. 

It could also be days.

But he finally finds a thimble sized light of a flame—candlelight—in the far distance. Everything comes back in panelled tidbits, wooden boards floating like awaiting puzzle pieces as he nears the candlelight. If he’s having to work to go to another moment he feels as if he’s coming closer to wherever he should be. 

It’s not later that he walks into Kenma’s study room, said man hunched over the table staring down at rolls of underground maps and names of supposed disbanded militia strewn across and pinned down at different locations. When Akaashi turns back to try and escape, the walls are solid behind him. As far as he’s concerned, he’s entered this room as if normal. 

Kenma looks up, hearing him. “Did I wake you?” 

“You didn’t, how could you ever,” Akaashi says, gentle. “When you move so quietly.” 

A tired smile is gifted to him. 

“But it has been two months of me waking up to an empty bed. I worry.” Akaashi can hear the hesitance in his own tone and knows that he’s testing the waters. Normally, he wouldn’t be forward but what with Kenma’s quiet demeanor and his own attitude of suppression someone had to speak. 

Kenma sighs. “Sorry.” He steps away from the table and crosses his arms. “I can’t sleep.” 

It’s probably that one small lie that makes Akaashi snap. It’s not that he couldn’t sleep, it’s that he couldn’t scheme when Akaashi’s awake. “You promised me. You said you’d never participate in or start a war.” 

“This again,” he hears Kenma mutter.

“Again? I’ve never brought it up despite your constant hiding.” 

“You don’t have to speak for me to understand your disapproval.” 

“I’m so tired.” He says. “Kenma, I can’t live through another war, I just want peace.” 

“I know.” 

Akaashi felt it, he felt the gentle push of his words, shoved aside as if inconsequential. He looks down at the plans Kenma has written down. 

“Many of the villagers will suffer, you can’t possibly think that this is your best strategy.” 

Kenma was unwavering. “Would my second-in-command have something to say?” 

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t want another war.” 

“Then…” It sounded like:  _ ‘we can’t help it’ _ . 

“You will not pin this on me,” Akaashi says, feeling a little bit of anger bubbling up. He doesn’t want things to escalate but they're too far from de-escalation now that Akaashi’s morality was on the line. “These are more than just collateral damages, these are people’s lives.” 

Kenma doesn’t say anything and, perhaps, that was most preferred because he’d rather the silence than hearing Kenma say that he doesn’t care.

“Unbelievable.” His frustration echoes in the room. “What if I were human?” 

His eyes narrow at him. “But you’re not, so stop projecting.”

_ Who was this? _ Akaashi fails to recognize him.

“You promised me there would be no more wars. I just want peace.”  _ With you.  _

“Yes, after the—”

“There is no after.” His voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “The bloodshed leads to more bloodshed. It may not be now and it may not be soon but there will always be bloodshed.” 

“Then, I suppose this war I’m about to aid will be the one of many.” 

“Kozume.” 

“I am centuries old, I don’t take that tone.” 

Akaashi grit his teeth, feeling an old hurt come alive. “Good night.” 

“Wait, Keiji—”

He doesn’t. 

He pulls the door open and walks out. 

Or, perhaps, he walks  _ in _ . 

It makes his skin crawl just the sight of it. 

It was the village he and Kenma lived in or what was left of it. The battle was uncalled for and the imperial leader didn’t have enough time to warn all of the villages of this onslaught. He feels his stomach twist at the smell of it—you just know what a burnt body smells like and you never forget once you know—he feels the texture of ash neath his feet as he walks. He realizes that it’s not just the burnt bodies that he smells, he also smells the magic in the extinguished fire and knows who casted it. 

He doesn’t stop walking. He fears that if he does, everything he’s suppressed will catch up to him. In his own memory, he can recall seeing Kenma from the forest that he hid himself in. He saw fingers pressed together to form a triangle just hovering in front of his face. He saw Kenma’s eyes unblinking through the massacre with Tsukishima beside him as Akaashi’s proxy. It’s common for warlocks to meddle in war but it is a rule to never speak about it during get togethers as if these were all just simple politics. 

Akaashi is a theurgist and it’s in his very nature to search for pain in order to heal it, in his soul ‘peace’ and ‘unification’ is a non-negotiable insatiable need. It’s because of who and what he was that he can hear the phantom screams of the village. He can hear the children crying.

The children.

Innocents.

He can’t heal pain if the ones who held it are no longer in the same realm as him. 

He can hear them scream and he can’t do anything about it.

_ So useless.  _

His feet stop in front of the home he and Kenma share. It stood there clean and pristine amongst the eradicated. It is almost as if it mocked everyone else:  _ weaklings _ , it says. It is their greatest advantage to have the means to protect themselves but what of those that can’t? He thinks about how many wars the warlocks have started and how many innocents they’ve deemed as necessary casualties. 

His mind begins to pull downwards before twisting into a spiral. Should he have gone to war? Would he have saved the village had he been there? Would he have been able to convince Kenma to take a different route if he had been there to whisper in his ear? But, then, this wouldn’t have happened at all had Kenma just decided to throw his plans away— _ if he had kept his promise _ . 

At present, he remembers every moment in between these three memories. He remembers trying to talk Kenma out of it, arguing and debating night and day to change his mind. There were times he thought that he’d made a slight change in Kenma’s decision making but then it would be followed with images of a group of militia at their home signing a contract. He wondered what their lives lacked for Kenma to never have enough, he wondered what he lacked for Kenma to never feel any sort of satisfaction.

Who was Akaashi to him at that point?

Most importantly...

Who were they to weigh the value of a life that wasn’t theirs? 

He felt disgusted seeing how the walls of their home stood tall with pride.

He felt vile.

He felt shame.

He felt guilt. 

His stomach twists and, this time, he does nothing to stop the bile that pushes itself out. He hunches over, hand on his knee as he trembles from force. 

There is a hand on his back in an instant, rubbing soothing circles. “Keiji.” 

“How many people died?” 

Silence.

“How many?” 

“A thousand...more or less.” 

His words make Akaashi’s skin crawl  _ ‘more or less’ _ as if those that didn’t meet the one thousandth mark weren’t important, as if they were counting flowers and not human lives that were lost. He steps away from Kenma, suddenly feeling like his touch was pure venom. 

He looked fine which was even worse. He looked like he went for a walk in the gardens save for the singed hems of his kimono and the few flyaway strands atop his head. He looked safe and unscathed and not at all guilt-ridden. He looked like an addict that got his fix.

“How long ‘til the next war?” 

“This is the last.” 

“No,” he says, cutting. “Not with you, never with you.” 

“I promise you—”

“You _ promised _ against this. You  _ committed. _ ” Akaashi sees a burnt toy on the ground, having to rip his gaze away from it lest he hunches over again. 

“It was my lapse of judgement.” Except Kenma never had a lapse of judgement. He never did or strategized anything that wouldn’t get him what he wanted. This time it was the influence of the west but the next could be anything.

It was obvious to Akaashi that no matter how much he begged or pleaded or cried, nothing would ever replace Kenma’s need for his ‘ _ fix _ ’. It hurt. It hurts to watch him unravel like this but Akaashi is not a mind healer and he cannot take it upon himself to repair someone even if it is someone he so deeply loves. He will not stay at the expense of himself. 

“I’ve had enough.” 

Kenma’s face twists. “What are you trying to say?” 

_ “This is enough.”  _

He looks at Kenma and only one feeling comes to the forefront, stronger than the fear that he feels in this memory, it was  _ resentment _ . It was such a strong tug of resentment. It was foreign as it flitted along the same space as love but love was smaller now, a tiny wisp that once glittered gold. 

This memory in particular opened such a fresh wound, something five decades just can’t fix. It was betrayal, it was guilt, it was shame, it was disappointment, and it was disgust all just wrapped under the umbrella of resentment. He doesn’t want to hurt Kenma but looking at the man hurts him and it’s not as if he can just close his eyes and will everything away. 

“Keiji…”

There’s nothing to say.

So Kenma stands there almost like a fish out of water, wanting to say something but unsure whether or not it’s the right thing to say. He had no strategy for he did not see this coming—he didn’t see a future that Akaashi would leave. It almost makes Akaashi want to laugh, what an assumption to make of him—that he could stand to see all of this violence happening around him and not react. 

He feels a tug on his gut as he pushes all of his magic towards the palms of his hands. He reaches forward and  _ twists  _ the air like one would a doorknob. The memory rips like fabric in his hold, wrinkling around itself in a silken sort of way. He gives one last look at Kenma before he fully tears the memory open.

White light spills from the rip, glowing brighter and brighter the more Akaashi enlarges it. He barely feels the way he clenches his jaw until he there is ache, barely feels the white-knuckling of his fists until his fingernails break skin. He didn’t want to stay in that memory any longer. The decades of suppression all for naught in the face of Kenma’s slowly fading look of hurt.

_ How dare he look hurt. _

He closes his eyes as the white light overwhelms him. He doesn’t know where he’ll go but surely any other memory is better than this one. His ears ring from the sudden transition, normally it was natural but this time he forced his way out, but he doesn’t mind that he’s rendered temporarily deaf. It’s barely any price. 

It takes a moment for him to anchor himself down after that last memory. It’s shaken him so horridly he wonders how he survived it the first time. Before, he had to pack everything with Kenma’s desperate words trailing after him. The house had almost melted from Kenma’s emotional turmoil if not for Akaashi wordlessly coating it with a lining of ice. 

He shakes his head, forces his eyes to open.

White.

He registers it rather quickly, quite impossible not to.

Everything was white. 

His blind rage turns to panic in a matter of seconds because ‘ _ where the fuck was he _ ?’ but he quickly tamps it down with a calming breath. It’s only times like these that Suga’s insistence on doing yoga came to fruition. ( _ “Keiji, it does you nothing to panic” “Wow, thank you, I’ve stopped panicking” “Shut it and Shavasana with me” _ ). 

It reminds him of a Hollywood style mental hospital.

“Finally,” a voice says. “You found me.” 

Akaashi is quick to turn around, finds Kenma sat on the ground looking a tad bit bored and maybe a little peckish. He suddenly recalls the first time they were around other people after the masquerade. He thought they’d hide everything and he thought Kenma would look at him with the same faux scrutiny like he always did but Akaashi was wrong. Kenma looked at him, saw him, then smiled. 

It’s that same look now. 

His chest squeezes at the sight. 

“You didn’t make it easy.” 

Kenma’s small smile was replaced by hesitation and a sudden look of ‘what now’ except, unlike before, Akaashi doesn’t fill the silence for him. He stands to his full height, still shorter than Akaashi but taller than previous. “How….how have you been?” 

“Because you don’t know?”

He shakes his head. “Knowing where you are is far from knowing how you are.” 

“I’ve been alright. I’m a doctor in Indonesia.” Akaashi tilts his head in consideration. “I suppose that means I’m a doctor everywhere else anyway.” 

“I see.” 

They stand there staring at each other. It lets Akaashi make quick observations, like the natural black of Kenma’s hair peeking through the top in what was stark contrast upon golden strands. He’s gotten thinner if even possible, collarbones jutted out and Akaashi is deathly afraid to find out what diet he’d been accustomed to. 

He’s daydreamed about this moment so much in the past five decades, wondering what it would be like the next time he sees Kenma and yet this was something he could have never imagined. The feelings, however, were as he expected. He wanted to reach out to him and hold him and perhaps maybe even kiss him but after the memory he saw he can’t quite bring himself to even step closer. The resentment a low hum in his chest, the love slow to awake right alongside it. 

He holds onto that resentment. 

“You know, it does make me wonder how a warlord could succumb to a coma.” He expects the other to bristle but there’s nothing. “Especially since you know as much as I how dangerous it is to remain stagnant.” 

He can tell that Kenma’s trying to choose his words. “It was simply a choice.”

“A choice,” he repeated, tone flat. “So you bent me to your will yet again?” 

Kenma’s brows shot up in panic. “NO. No. I didn’t mean to, I just…”

“You, what?” Akaashi cuts. “I told you I’ve had enough but it’s okay, I suppose, I’m surprised you kept  _ this _ promise for that long.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Akaashi stares at him, letting the apology sink in. He had always wanted an apology, always wanted Kenma to take accountability for all this suppressed pain but now that he has it...what is it? It meant a lot of things: _ ‘I’m sorry I broke my promise’, ‘I’m sorry I made you come’, ‘I’m sorry I burdened you with this’ _ . But, Akaashi finds, it only truly means one thing:  _ nothing _ . 

“Enough.” He barely suppresses a sigh before he sends his magic to his palms. “Let’s leave.” 

“Wait—” 

He wanted to get this over with, wanted to be completely and utterly done. “I don’t like to be played with.” 

“Keiji—” He had already ripped the fabric of the space, opening an exit to the real world. He can see their bodies waiting for them. (He’s secretly thankful that Kuroo didn’t draw a mustache on him and simply draped a blanket on his body). 

“Don’t you—” Akaashi begins to move towards it.

“ _ I SAID WAIT _ .” A wave of red magic rumbles through the ground from beneath Kenma’s feet, the floors move, as if waves of an ocean, in response to this sudden power. Akaashi simply tries his best to remain balanced, losing control over his own spell in doing so. The red shoots up when it can no longer stay underground, disperses into the air around them.

Akaashi looks down at his hands, tries to will his magic to return but finds himself temporarily subdued. Right. “That’s cheap, Kenma, and you know it.” 

“”I knew you’d try to run.” 

“Excuse me?”

Kenma’s nose scrunches up in barely concealed frustration. “It’s what you do. You see a problem then you run.”

Akaashi glares at him. “Don’t.” 

A sigh. “I told you to wait.” 

“So, you wanted to talk.” 

“I wanted a chance to.” 

“Then send a note—”

“I did.”

Akaashi wants to hit him: badly. “Send a better one, send one where the sender is conscious with no need for me to exhaust myself.”

_ Exhaust. _ Right. He had not used his magic in so long it’s a wonder he’d been able to do this at all. It’s even a wonder that his core didn’t eat his body’s inner walls like an unwanted ulcer. He takes a deep breath, it seems all he can do at this time is breathe. 

“So that you reject me?” 

“So that I may  _ think _ about whether or not to reject you.” 

Kenma’s lips press into a thin line, it tells Akaashi that he’s giving great thought to what he’d say next. He’s so uncharacteristically careful and it makes Akaashi feel as though he’s missing something.

“I needed you to use your magic.” 

Akaashi knew that had Kenma not banished magic for a temporary timeframe, the air around him would crackle with indignation. “I’m fine. I don’t need your concern.” 

“ _ Fine? _ ” He sounds as if he’s mocking the word. “You’re  _ dying _ .” 

“Look, I’m not something you can strategize for just to get what you want.” 

“I want you alive, is that so bad?” 

“ _ Yes because I don’t wish to be _ .” Akaashi feels the heaviness of his admission surrounding them. He doesn’t care. “If I were a pyromancer I would’ve been long dead in the first decade but I’m not and I had to...I  _ have _ to wait.” 

Kenma, now, bristles. “You’d ask me to let you die?” 

“I thought that abandoning everything for five decades would leave the impression that I no longer wanted to be found? That I don’t want this?  _ That I’ve had enough _ .” 

“I don’t want you to die,” he says, desperate. “I’d rather you hate me somewhere than nowhere at all.” 

“So it’s what you want again,” he hissed.

“I….” Kenma shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips as he takes a deep breath. He knows he’s fighting a losing battle. Akaashi watches him start to turn away but stops himself before he could even do it. They both knew that once someone turns away, it’s the end of the discussion and the start of a fight.

  
  


Akaashi was by no means suicidal, he only craved for a long rest. He didn’t want to live through another act of violence, he didn’t want to see the seeds that the previous wars had sowed. He wanted to be fleeting and he wanted to be mortal. They say that being forgotten was a shame but Akaashi could think of nothing more blissful than letting the grand scheme of things take over. 

They turn when they hear a noise, the walls and the ground slowly dividing in square panels looking like a deconstructed chess board—and they’re stuck at check with seemingly no right moves left—Akaashi could not stabilize the space without his magic nor can Kenma keep his thoughts coherent enough to keep it together. Akaashi assumes that this is what it looks like for Kenma to be defeated, stable ground slowly coming apart bit by bit.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Keiji, you both need to get out of there. It isn’t stable anymore. _

  
  


_ Kuroo, it’s alright.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s Kenma that answers, but ‘alright’ didn’t seem like a fitting word. 

It’d only take a few minutes for everything to come apart and it seems Kenma no longer has anything to say. 

“I said I’ve had enough of this immortality and everything it brings,” Akaashi said. Kenma looks at him blankly. “I no longer want to be a part of it. I don’t want to hurt myself but I don’t want to be immortal either. I don’t need this. I don’t want to see another war and I don’t want to see more deaths.” 

“There will be none, not anymore.” 

“Oh,  _ my love _ ,” Except, he said it with so much pity. “It’s you that led the second world war. I was in Switzerland when I heard.” 

Kenma winces. “It was my last.” 

Akaashi is unable to find a response so he doesn’t force himself to, simply watches more panels break from the main platform. The walls have long since dismantled, everything around them just an unending space of black.

Two panels fall from behind Kenma. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

“I’ve yet to stop loving you.”

Akaashi swallows the lump in his throat. “I know that too.” 

“Tell me that you feel nothing so I’m able to stop.” 

“If I told you I still loved you, how many plans of action do you have in your hand?” 

“One.” 

“And if I told you I don’t anymore?” 

“One.” 

Akaashi searches his eyes, finds that there’s no longer bloodlust but only sincerity and tinges of desperation. “Why do you think I came?” 

Because he did. He did still love him despite everything that’s happened. With every second that they’re together, Akaashi is closer to just giving up all the hurt in favor of laying beside him once again. He wanted to comb his hair. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted so many things. Mostly, he wanted to forgive him no matter how impossible it felt. 

Kenma blinks then looks down, a trace of a smile on his lips. 

God. 

_ God.  _

How he missed that smile. 

The panels beside them begin to detach, where each panel goes they both don’t know. He can’t have it end like this, not when he feels a conclusion finally at their grasp. “Tell me what you want, Kenma.” 

He meets Akaashi’s gaze. “Is that okay?”

His brows furrow, confused.

“Is it okay to want something from you?”

Akaashi gives him a small, barely even there, smile. “Just this once, I suppose.” 

“A chance.” 

“I can’t….” Kenma’s face falls, looking absolutely heartbroken. His heart squeezes at the mere sight of it. “At least not yet, I can’t give you that.” 

The panel behind him detaches so he’s forced to take a step forward, the single panel in between them, empty for the duration of their conversation, now suddenly holding him. From here, he can smell lavender. Kenma does the same, a little shyly. They’re surrounded by nothing but emptiness and yet in this stark black Kenma has never looked more like golden sunlight, like a warm glow of a candle and Akaashi was a desperate traveller.

Akaashi doesn’t dare look away from him.

This flame is small but it’s there.

“I can’t promise you absolute forgiveness or that it’ll be easy or that I can give you what I once gave.”

Kenma nods, eyes sparking with hope. “Okay.”

“But I can promise you that when you wake up I’ll be there.” He lifts his hand, palm upwards, waiting for Kenma to take it or at least make a decision. 

Kenma looks at it first, hearing the panels they once stood on fall away until it was just them and the last bit of white underneath them holding them up. He takes Akaashi’s hand, the other coming to grip the hem of his jacket. 

Kenma’s hand was small compared to his but the warmth of it covered his entirety. 

“You’ll be there when I wake up.” 

Akaashi smiles at him.

Kenma gives him a hopeful one back.

The panel falls. 

  
  
  


**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!
> 
> Greatly appreciate each and every kudos and comment. Hope you have a nice dayyy!
> 
> I have an epilogue in mind but I've not much energy maybe if I get enough requests.
> 
> (also forgive my pacing ksksks)


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